


The Dazzle Effect

by Scappodaqui, tinzelda



Series: Scraps [7]
Category: Captain America (Comics), Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Angst and Humor, Awkward First Times, Bad Dirty Talk, Blow Jobs, Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Feels Steve Rogers, Childhood Friends, Dirty Talk, Enthusiastic but Inept Dirty Talk, First Time, First Time Blow Jobs, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Smut, Food Metaphors for Sex, Friends to Lovers, Gen, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Laughter During Sex, M/M, Praise Kink, Protective Bucky Barnes, Protective Steve Rogers, Puns & Word Play, Resolved Sexual Tension, Sexual Humor, Spam & Jam Sandwiches, Steve spills his sundae, Very Enthusiastic Steve Rogers, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-21
Updated: 2015-10-21
Packaged: 2018-04-27 10:23:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5044690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scappodaqui/pseuds/Scappodaqui, https://archiveofourown.org/users/tinzelda/pseuds/tinzelda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Do you know what they paint a lot of the boats out here in really crazy funny colors? Well, I know you couldn’t see them all, but you could see some. Like these jagged blue and darker blue. One is like a zebra, big bold stripes. And one of the ones we saw when we landed here on the coast of XXXXXXXXXXX is like this crazy Picasso with all the colors mixed up in chunks and you know you told me that didn’t ya? You can imagine it, anyhow. The camoufloors in the Great War they did that too, to confuse the U-boats.</i>
</p><p> </p><p>  <i>--from Bucky's second letter to Steve, describing boats painted in "dazzle camouflage," which did not deceive enemies as to the location of a ship but rather its type, speed, and direction.</i></p><p> </p><p>The Howling Commandos watch Steve's Captain America movie. Steve and Bucky finally get a sundae or three.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Dazzle Effect

“Are you telling me _none_ of you have seen it?” Dugan demanded.

Dernier shrugged. “Perhaps if it had to been Captain France.”

Monty said, “What would that entail, exactly?”

Dernier glared. Monty said, “Sorry,” and to Dugan, “Look, it’s not that we aren’t grateful to you Yankees…it’s just that at least in England our heroes wear trousers.”

“Don’t look at me,” Morita said. “My unit ain’t—wasn’t.” He grimaced. “Exactly fond of those comics. Sorry, Cap, I know that wasn’t your doing.”

Jones said, “I don’t know why I didn’t see it; I think I was busy translating German propaganda films. Probably would’ve preferred this, if it were anything like those USO shows.”

“What were they like?” Bucky asked, a little curious. He’d heard some of the dumb propaganda directed toward Americans, but not much of the kind the Germans played for themselves.

“Oh,” Jones said, “Not a lot that’s strategically important. Morale stuff. Mostly it was some busty blondes on bicycles talking about how they love the Führer.”

Steve stared down at the ground for a moment, and when he looked up, he had the quirk of a wry little smile on his face. “That doesn’t sound so different from our movies.”

Bucky rolled his eyes at Steve’s self-deprecation. “It _is_ —” he started.

Steve held up a hand. “No, I know it’s different. The Captain America movie is silly, but we mean well and we don’t tell lies. It’s for the right side.”

“So let’s watch, already,” Dum Dum said. “I can’t think of much that would get our morale up like a group of busty blondes.”

Morita made a sound somewhere between a chuckle and a snort. Jones shrugged.

Monty murmured, “Americans.”

Dernier said, “ _Va-t-en_! I have seen your, what is it, pin picture.”

Bucky said, “Wait a minute, did they get the girls in the movie?” To the others, “Steve was worried the girls in the show couldn’t get work in the film.”

“Yeah,” Steve said, “Well, only for the final kickline under the credits, but they were paid union wage.”

“Very respectable, standing up for the rights of women too,” Jones said.

“I will _stand up_ for the rights of—” Dernier started, looking delighted at his English pun. Jones raised an eyebrow at him and he fell silent. “ _Alors, alors,_ ” Dernier said, chastened. “Let us watch this spectacle.”

Bucky looked at Steve, who was still a little red in the face. Steve shrugged at him, making the beginning of a crinkling expression he would probably only have completed had they been in private.

“You didn’t even see it,” Dugan said to Bucky. “You!”

“I had letters to read.”

“Well, it’s settled. We’re going to watch it. Freedom on the Front! Right, Cap?” Dugan said.

Bucky groaned, aware of what was coming.

“Freedom on the Front… tights on the rear,” Dugan said, and Bucky tried very, very hard not to look at Steve, whose blush had to have a visibly radiating aura by this point.

“Really can’t believe you didn’t want to see that,” Dugan told Bucky.

“Hey,” Bucky said, “Those tights saved your ass. We like those tights. We owe a lot to those damn tights.”

Steve stood with the others but hung back when they started to drift away. He was looking down at his feet. “Maybe this isn’t a good idea.”

“C’mon, it’ll be great.”

“They called me a chorus girl, Bucky.” Steve smiled, but it was obvious he wasn’t joking. “They called me Tinkerbell.”

“Who did?”

“The guys in the audience. When we did the show.”

“Oh, the show,” Bucky swung his arm around Steve’s shoulders and gave him a nudge to get him moving. It was strange to have to reach _up_. “Who cares about that? That was before.”

Steve nodded at the guys walking in front of them. “I don’t want them to lose respect for me before we even get started.”

“They’re all idiots, but they’re not stupid. They’ve seen what you can do.” Bucky gave Steve’s shoulders a squeeze. “And I need to see this, Steve. Seriously, I gotta see this.” He let his arm drop and walked ahead, trying to catch up to the others. “Come on.” He turned back to grin at Steve. “Captain.”

“Does that bother you?”

“That you outrank me?” Bucky raised an eyebrow and gave Steve a pointed look. “Nah, we already know who’s in charge.”

Jim Morita set up the projector so the movie showed up against the big hanging tent-cloth. Bucky scrambled up to tie it to a tree, while Dugan tethered the other end. He dropped down, catching himself with one hand on the ground, and joined the rest of the Commandos in the cool November gloom. They’d started a little fire to keep warm. Even at 1600 hours, some dimness had spread through the air. The movie would show up fine in the shadow of the trees.

The projector reel flickered and threw the picture onto the screen.

 _Captain America: Freedom on the Front!_ came up in exuberant swirling letters.

Bucky lowered himself to the grass on the far side of the fire pit. There was Captain America, in film; there was Steve, a few careful feet away in the dim glow thrown by waning sunlight and flickering fire. Whenever Bucky glanced his way, he caught him looking back. Bucky gave him a slow smile, then turned his attention back to the movie.

It wasn’t that he didn’t want to look at the real Steve; it was that somehow—somehow it was easier to look at the Steve onscreen, to look at Captain America. Steve so self-conscious under that cowl, the little crimp of his awkward smile. It was easier to look at that, to let it be a little distant. It was easier, too, to bask in a Steve shown in technicolor, finally. A Steve shown the way he’d always figured everyone ought to look at him, with a spotlight on him, with health and energy, like this was what he was supposed to have been all along. Like the crazy stories Bucky made up in his head were being projected onto the screen in front of them. Like they got to live in Bucky’s dream world together for a little bit, him and Steve together watching this silly little picture projected onto tent fabric hung on a tree he couldn’t name.

Onscreen, Captain America paused at the top of a hill, silhouetted against the rising sun, one arm flung out, motioning his men forward. The light outlined his strong, graceful body, the bend of one knee, the twist of his torso, the fine line of his jaw. He glanced toward the camera for a second; the reel flickered and the image shifted so he was looking toward the horizon once again. It was an obvious splice to correct an error. Bucky smiled at that.

Dugan said, “Captain, we’re gonna have to teach you about staying down in the field.”

“Unless he’s bulletproof,” Jones observed. “Are you bulletproof, like Superman?”

“I’m not bulletproof,” Steve said.

“Too bad,” said Jim Morita.

“He’ll learn how to stay down,” Bucky said. “The Captain learns fast, you’ll see.”

Dugan was passing around a bottle he’d dug up somewhere—actually he’d brought two. They’d made it through the first in short order. The stuff in this one was stronger. Bucky thought he might be taking more than his share. His face felt hot. He passed it on to Steve, who shook his head and handed it over to Gabe Jones, who wiped off the lip of it before he handed it on to Monty.

“No need for that,” Dugan said gruffly.

Jones said, “Oh. Really? Thanks.”

“Sh,” Dugan said, “They’re gonna rescue the girl.”

Bucky looked at Steve and mouthed, _What girl?_ He noticed that Steve’s eyes stayed on his lips for a few moments after they’d stopped moving.

On screen, Captain America caught the swooning captive lady in his arms and set her gently on her feet.

Bucky let out a groan he hoped wasn’t audible and flopped back onto his elbows in the grass. He rolled his head back and shut his eyes. When he opened them, Steve was staring. Bucky stared back for a moment, then looked down. His head buzzed; he felt giddy, almost. He wondered what it would be like if Steve picked him up like that. He remembered Steve’s arm around him after he’d helped him off the table. He still couldn’t believe it was real.

Jones whooped. “You make her acquaintance, Captain?”

“She’s married,” Steve said awkwardly, shifting his gaze from Bucky to Gabe.

“ _Hélas_!” said Dernier.

On screen, Captain America grunted and strained as he twisted a knot in the barrel of a tank.

“Okay,” Bucky said pointing, “Okay, that is not—” He coughed on liquor fumes. “—possible. Is it? Can you…?”

“I’ve never tried,” Steve said.

“We’re gonna have you try,” Bucky said.

“Not with one of our tanks,” said Dugan.

“Hey,” Bucky said, when there was a lull in the picture, a long slow pan over bobbing ocean waves and the dinky studio backdrop of a Pacific island full of palm trees. “You’re not drinking.”

“Doesn’t seem to do much anymore.”

“Well, we gotta have something. Like popcorn at the Paramount.” Bucky felt in his pockets, hands already a little clumsy with cooling air and alcohol. He pulled out all of his saved-up tubes of M&Ms. He tossed the first one to Monty, out of some instinct to share resources with the poor deprived spam-and-jam Brits; and another to Morita, who had a sweet tooth almost as bad as his. He passed the rest around to the other Commandos, and handed Steve’s to him himself, pressing it into his palm. Steve squeezed his hand back.

“Cheers,” Monty said.

Morita grunted, stuffing a handful into his mouth, and grinned around the chocolate.

There was a troop of enemy soldiers coming up over the dunes in the movie, and swinging out of palm trees. Bucky saw that some of the wires holding the actors up mid-jump were visible.

Captain America came up out of the water wearing a diver’s mask over his Captain America cowl and holding a giant fake submarine over his head. Bucky burst out laughing. He saw Steve squirm and threw an M&M at him, a purple one, though it was hard to see in the dark.

“Think fast!”

Steve’s head snapped around and his mouth opened automatically; he caught the M&M on his tongue.

He threw one back at Bucky shortly afterwards, when the camera zoomed in on Steve pulling off his cowl and wiping his brow, his uniform wet and stuck to him, ripped across the chest where a Japanese bayonet had scored him picturesquely. The M&M hit Bucky on the cheek; his sniper’s reflexes hadn’t kicked in. He picked it up out of the grass, fumbling, still watching the screen, and popped it in his mouth. It left a little pink stain on his fingertips, from the dye.

“Punk,” he muttered to Steve, scooting closer, on pretext of making it easier to catch the thrown M&Ms.

Steve leaned in. “Buck, this is terrible. Why are you even watching this?”

Bucky glanced in Steve’s direction, but his gaze slid away again, back to the screen. He couldn’t help it. Seeing Steve up there, larger than life, was mesmerizing. A little scary. Surreal. Surreal like the art Steve was always talking about back home; it made him feel like he was in the landscape of a dream, as though the plane of reality had tilted to one side and everything was sliding slowly, slowly down… so slowly the slide itself became a strange sickly pleasure, a pull like seasickness in his stomach.

A battle scene came next: Steve waving the troops forward, then firing a machine gun wildly at something off camera.

“Ugh,” Dugan said, shaking his head in disgust. “If you did that to one a’ my guns—”

Bucky came back to himself in time to make sure Steve didn’t think Dugan was disgusted by _him_. “You can’t fire an M2 that long,” he explained, “Barrel gets too hot.”

“Yeah,” Dugan says, “And there’s recoil, too. But they like the noise in movies, so they do this bullshit.”

Jones said, “Those Hydra ray guns we captured don’t seem to be subject to the same problem.”

“That’s a question of energy waves,” Morita said, “Which is innerestin’. Takes some time to charge ‘em up, seems to me. Energy doesn’t come from nowhere.”

“Stark said he’d tell us,” Bucky said, after a pause: he thought that might be the most he’d ever heard Morita say at a time.

Steve said, “I hope our side can harness some of that for our own use.”

“Amen to that,” said Monty, raising the bottle he held in salute.

Bucky tipped his tube of candy, spilling a couple of M&Ms into his palm. He smiled when he saw Steve looking at him. He threw Steve another M&M—an easy underhanded toss that Steve caught without even having to move.

“Come on, make it a challenge,” Steve whispered.

But even with that look Steve was giving him—showing off a little, trying to be playful—Bucky’s eyes went back to the screen. Captain America was crawling up a hill on knees and elbows, trying to get at an enemy encampment. Bucky wasn’t sure what made that so mesmerizing, but it sure was.

“You really like this?” Steve asked.

Watching the next scene, Bucky could see what Steve meant about the movie. If Captain America could tie knots in metal and lift subs over his head, how could five henchmen grab him and wrestle him into chains? It made no sense. At the same time, Bucky could almost feel the cold metal on his own arms, could feel the stretch and strain of Steve’s arms as he struggled against the thin chain. He blinked once, twice. There was sweat in his eyes. And hot nerve pulses were running through him. He wasn’t sure why. He couldn’t help it. It was like—

And he was _hard_. He had to wriggle so his pants shifted against his dick. He felt strangled himself, busting out. Because Steve was gonna break out of there anytime, and he could see that barely-contained power and it wasn’t real and it was real and—

Steve put his hand on Bucky’s back. “Bucky?” The concern in Steve’s voice was obvious, and Bucky realized all at once that Steve must be thinking about how he’d seen Bucky tied to Zola’s table. But Bucky wasn’t thinking about that. He wasn’t. Before he could whisper something to put Steve’s worries to rest, Dugan let out a bark of laughter.

“That guy’s no more Japanese than I am,” Dugan said.

Morita snorted.

Bucky looked back at the screen, where a villain was creeping onto to the scene in a silky embroidered robe and a tall, boxy hat. His hair looked like it was slicked back with shoe polish. “Captain America!” The villain said. The monologue that followed was predictably corny, a ramble about taking over the world, keeping good guys in chains. Sacrificing freedom for power. Bucky could’ve written it better himself. Maybe Steve was right, maybe someday he could write for the movies, and they could get a place in California....

But now Steve was answering back, calling the villain evil, a tyrant. He swore to defend attacks on “our shores,” attacks on the helpless, and said some stuff about the forces of evil never winning out over justice and freedom. Bucky wasn’t listening too hard. He found himself imagining things, to which the movie was just the backdrop.

Steve talked over his own righteous on-screen speech. “You okay?”

“What?” Bucky answered, distracted by the sight of Steve writhing under the chains.

Steve’s hand settled on Bucky’s lower back. “Is this bothering you?”

Projected up on the screen, Steve’s chest heaved, the muscles in his neck twisting as he strained against the chains. Bucky swallowed and shook his head.

“This isn’t so bad, Cap,” Morita said. “Hardly any smart talk about the Japs, even.”

Bucky cleared his throat. “Steve wouldn’t let ‘em put that stuff in there,” he said.

“I didn’t have any control over that,” Steve said. “There was a script.”

Morita still looked unconvinced, but he wasn’t frowning anymore. It was like he _wanted_ to believe that Steve was on the level but couldn’t quite let himself yet. Steve must have seen the lingering doubt too, because he drew himself up and looked Morita straight in the eye. It was something Bucky’d seen him do a thousand times, but the posture looked very different on his new frame. Bucky’d always seen Steve’s strength, but now there was no way now you _couldn’t_ see it.

“You might be surprised how well I understand what it’s like to have folks making assumptions based on how you look,” Steve said. His voice was quiet, but Bucky could see all the guys were listening closely. “I judge a man from his actions and his words, and that’s all I expect in return.”

Bucky took one look at the skepticism on Morita’s face and knew that Steve wasn’t going to win him over with the high-brow speeches. Maybe Steve saw that too, because he grinned.

“I’m no actor, though,” Steve said. “I flubbed my lines a lot, and they put cue cards on the back of the shield.” He paused. “There’s not much room on those little cards, you know. They had to cut a lot of stuff out.”

Morita and Jones were both ignoring the movie now, and Falsworth had turned to follow the conversation as well. Morita shifted on the grass so that he was facing backwards. Steve stiffened and let his arm drop from Bucky’s shoulders. Bucky wondered if he was uncomfortable because Morita was watching with a frown on his face. To be fair, Bucky had pushed so close he was half in Steve’s lap by now. Or maybe Steve just didn’t like saying anything the guys might take as bragging.

Jones pointed to the screen. “I can’t help but notice that you’re not holding the shield.”

Steve nodded. “I’ve seen the comic books. I know how awful they are. I complained about that, believe me, and I did the best I could to make the movie better, but they didn’t listen to me. You gotta understand they all thought I was just a big lunkhead anyway. I learned to work with that.”

“Work with it how, exactly?” Monty asked.

“That guy up there, the one that’s less Japanese than Dugan? His name is Beaumont. He’s from Jersey. When he first started, he read all his lines in this terrible fake accent. It was awful. I told them I couldn’t understand a word the guy was saying. And it was hard to follow, he was laying it on so thick. So I kept missing my cue until the assistant director got fed up and told Beaumont to cut it out with the accent.”

Jones laughed, and Morita gave Steve one last appraising look before they all turned back to the movie. Bucky felt fierce hot pride in Steve—for how well he stood up for things, for how the others saw him. He tried to think of a way to convey it that wasn't a touch and failed.

Steve turned to grin at Bucky, but as soon as their eyes met Steve’s smile faded. “You sure you’re okay? You’re breathing funny.”

The evil monologue from Beaumont continued—only to be cut off by a swinging right hook.

The fearless Captain was free again, the mysterious ebb in his strength just as mysteriously vanishing, so that he snapped the chains with a few flexing muscles before he lay into the tyrant.

It was a great scene, actually.

“What’s wrong?” Steve whispered. His arm slid up and tightened around Bucky’s shoulders and Bucky leaned into him, letting his head fall back onto Steve’s shoulder. “The chain wasn’t even attached to anything when we were filming that part. I was holding the ends in my hands. And part of it was made of papier-maché or something, so I could break it. It was all fake.” His arm circled Bucky’s waist as he turned toward him, his hand coming to rest on his belly for a second before Bucky twisted around to face him. “Bucky?”

“It’s okay, Steve,” Bucky whispered. He took stock of himself. Was it? Yeah. More than okay. “I _like_ it.”

“You—?” Steve’s eyes grew wide. Even in the flickering light from the projector Bucky could see the deep flush spreading over his face. They stared at one another. Bucky could see the way Steve was looking at his mouth.

Onscreen, Captain America’s love interest was staring at him, too. At least Steve wasn’t looking back at her the way he was looking _now_ ; he seemed uncomfortable, actually, his onscreen body stiff and tense. Not that it was all bad. Bucky could see why they put the characters in the movie together. She had been brave when the onscreen Germans held her hostage, and then she’d whacked one of them over the head with his own rifle when he tried to sneak up on Captain America. It was almost nice to watch the reunion, if he could pretend it was just Captain America, but with Steve looking so uncomfortable there, and with him here, too, in real life, right beside Bucky... it—

There was the whirring roar of a shell. At first Bucky thought it might be in the movie, but it was too loud, and too close. His reflexes hadn’t been _that_ hampered by alcohol. He jerked sideways, instinctively moving to cover Steve—only to find himself pile-driven onto his back himself, Steve’s new body crashing down on him.

The movie still played in the background. It sounded quieter now, the dialogue tinny and unreal-seeming. Bucky was on his back on the dirt and Steve was curled over him, he felt that now. His face was in Steve’s armpit; he could feel Steve’s muscles all braced for impact, and then they slowly unwound, and the pressure was gone as Steve pushed himself back, very slowly. Bucky looked up. Steve wasn’t blushing now. He looked pale.

The rest of the Commandos were similarly shaken. Jones and Dernier uncrimped themselves from identical, somewhat silly-looking crouches. Morita lowered his arms from over his head. Dugan had pulled his hat down so far over his ears he’d deformed the brim. He was now pushing it back into place.

Monty’d nearly taken a nose-dive into the flames. He was the first to speak, brushing ash off his jacket sleeve. “Quite the effects, these American movies,” he said.

“We haven’t had a hit that close to base in a while,” Dugan said.

“Fifteen miles, I'd say,” Morita said. “Sounded closer. Because we’re in a valley. The echo.”

“ _Ça vient d’un avion,_ ” Dernier said.

“Comes from a plane,” Jones translated. “Well, nothing to worry about. German planes are no good; we’ll get them in a dogfight.”

The others didn’t seem to notice how Bucky and Steve were still entangled, but Steve quickly pulled his arm free from Bucky’s; it was hard for Bucky to let go, too. He hadn’t realized he’d had his hand closed on Steve’s wrist. His hold had been so tight his fingers had cramped. He flexed his fist and sat up all the way.

“Right, well, who wants a drink?” Monty offered, rescuing the bottle from where it had rolled to a halt near him. He took a swig himself, then held it out.

Bucky looked away from Steve, toward Monty, clearing his throat.

“Cheers, mate,” he said, trying to sound like a Brit, grabbing for the bottle.

“It’s about done,” Monty cautioned him. Bucky shrugged. He needed something at the moment. Not just because he’d been shaken by the shell, but because of what he’d been shaken out of.

If he wasn’t going to— _his lips on Steve’s mouth, all wet heat, their bodies moving together in starts and jerks as if lit by flickering projector-reel light, a faraway light that brought your dreams in through the darkness of the trees, and Steve’s face the way it had been just before the shell all naked need and flush he—_

Yeah, if he wasn’t going to get any of that yet, he’d better at least wrap his lips around a bottle.

“Okay, pipe down,” Morita said, “Back to the movie.”

Bucky rescued his errant tube of candy from the grass and chucked an M&M at his head. Even soused, his aim wasn’t bad, but Morita snagged it out of the air and popped it in his mouth.

The Commandos settled in to watch the climactic fight scene. The Stukas they had hanging up in the sky looked ridiculous but the audio wasn’t bad. It actually sounded a little too real, and Bucky shook his head, trying to forget the earlier explosion. He looked down at the bottle in his hand, then away from the screen, toward Steve in the dark. They had somehow edged closer to each other again, but no one seemed to notice or care. Bucky sighed and settled himself, nudging Steve’s knee with his own, and tipped his head back, drinking down the dregs of alcohol in the bottle.

He made maybe a little too much of putting his mouth on the lip of it, letting the last liquor slide down his throat. He lowered the bottle, gave a little cough, and licked the residue left on his hand between thumb and fingers off with his tongue. He got to watch Steve onscreen, so might as well give him something to look at too.

Bucky looked up at Steve through his eyelashes. His mouth was hanging open slightly, and again his gaze was locked on to Bucky’s mouth.

“Very absorbing flick,” Bucky said, leaning sideways against Steve, their shoulders brushing, turning so his breath tickled Steve’s ear. “Oops. Better not talk. Bothering ‘em.”

“I think—” Steve shifted. His body, his big new body, felt like it might be shaking. “—I think you’ve had enough.” He took the bottle from Bucky, and seemed surprised at how light it was—he almost fumbled it, then put it aside in the grass.

“No, _haven’t_ ,” Bucky whispered in his ear, tongue darting out to touch it, hand cupped over his face to keep anyone from seeing.

“Sarge, you finished the likker?” Dum Dum said.

“ _Fermez-la-bouche! Regardons le film.”_

“You fum may la boosh, Jack,” Dum Dum grumbled. “Damn, it’s cold. Could use some more to _drink_.”

Morita offered him an M&M. Dugan grunted and took it, then, grudgingly, turned to lean against the other soldier.

Bucky looked up; it wasn’t just him and Steve sitting close. Dernier and Jones were leaning back-to-back near the fire, and Monty almost set _himself_ on fire holding his coat open to the flames.

“Yeah, Cap, ‘scold,” Bucky said. “Scoot.” He put a hand on Steve’s knee, eased it aside, and squirmed his way in between the sprawl of Steve’s legs, leaning back against his warm chest. Strange, to be the one being held. He relaxed into the heat of Steve's body. Then he slid back a little closer than was necessary, shifting side to side. One of Steve’s arms came up around him, hesitant, then back down again in a twitch. He was being careful. Bucky wasn’t. Who cared? No one was watching them; they were watching _Captain America: Freedom on the Front_.

“What kinda pistol’s that?” Bucky said, ostensibly talking about the image on the screen. He could feel Steve hard against his back. He was pretty hot himself. Really, it didn't feel cold at all. Even for November. God, he was gonna embarrass himself when he stood up if he didn’t try to cool it, but he didn’t want to.

He thought about wet heat on his tongue and stinging ocean water lapping at the beach of the desert island in the background onscreen. It was a new world, was what it was. It was like they’d stepped out of the Paramount in his dream and found themselves awash in the film’s own sunset. _See Steve_ , he thought, starting to compose a letter in his head, then realized he didn’t have to because he was here, solid at his back.

Steve pressed his cheek against Bucky’s neck—just for a moment—then whispered in Bucky’s ear. “I missed you so much. You have no idea.”

Bucky craned his neck around and said, "I think I got some idea, pal."

The big battle of the movie began. The ridiculous villain—now with one eye inexpertly blacked by makeup—stood by shaking his fists in frustration as he watched his forces defeated by Captain America and his men. The good Captain seemed to be in every skirmish on the battlefield somehow, but the guys watching didn’t seem to mind the implausibility of it. They were whistling and cheering. Even Morita.

With everyone absorbed, Bucky rocked back a little, giving Steve some friction. Steve let out a strangled noise and inched away. “Geez, Buck, what’re you trying to do to me?” But he kept Bucky wrapped up in his arms.

As the music swelled for the finale, he gave Bucky a squeeze and pressed a kiss to the back of his neck, fast and furtive. Then he nudged at Bucky’s back and ribs until he sat up enough for Steve to slip out from behind him and move to a discreet distance. It made Bucky’s back feel cold.

The movie wrapped up with a kickline over which the credits ran. _Steve Rogers as Captain America!_ flashed on the screen. The Star-Spangled Man played in the background, sans lyrics. It wasn’t a bad tune.

“Hey, keep it going through the kickline,” Jones said. Dernier nodded vehemently.

“Captain Steve Rogers,” Bucky said. “Here’s to our Captain!”

“If we had something to toast—” Dugan started.

Morita tipped his head back and let out a pitch-perfect wolf howl.

“God damn,” Jones said, startled.

“That’s how us country folks cheer,” Morita said. He hiccupped.

“ _Quelle hurlement!_ ” Dernier said.

“Woo hoo,” said Dugan. “Whew. Maybe I don’t need more to drink, Jim sure don’t, Jee-sus.” Bucky wondered which Jim he was talking about. Probably Morita, but maybe all three of them. “That sure is a show, Captain.”

“Thanks,” Steve said, pushing himself fluidly up off the grass, brushing off his uniform. Which was no longer tights, Bucky was sad to realize. He’d somehow got the picture of what Steve was wearing in real life and what he was wearing onscreen tangled in his head a little.

“Sure is a show,” Bucky echoed, agreeing with Dugan, grinning around at everyone. He thought for a second, then put two fingers in his mouth and let out a wolf _whistle_ , ear-piercing. It felt good, after so long trying to be quiet in the field. Or on the table, just reciting name, rank—nope. He shut that train of thought right down.

“Hey, Steve, help me up. I’m stuck.” Steve gave him a hand, pulling him to his feet; Bucky rocked there, waiting for the world to settle around him.

Monty had gotten up and was stomping the dickens out of the fire left in the pit, rather uncoordinated with drink. Red and orange sparks flew up in a flurry around his boot.

“Captain America,” Monty said, when he’d finished stomping. “And his loyal Commandos.”

“His _howling_ Commandos,” Dugan said.

“Huh,” Morita said.

“I like that,” said Jones.

Bucky turned to grin at Steve, but he didn’t even seem to be listening to the conversation.

“It’s just a movie,” Steve said. “I mean, I really do know some of the tactics there are ridiculous.”

So it wasn’t just that he was the only one completely sober—he was still worried about what the guys thought of the movie.

“Naw, it’s good fun,” Dugan said.

“Not all ridiculous!” Monty said. “All the world’s a stage—after all—and we are merely players. Who frut and stretch our day upon the… oh good Lord. I’m quite thoroughly soushed. Did I tell you all I did Shakespeare in University? Did I—”

“I played Lysistrata once,” Jones said.

 _“Vraiment?_ ” Dernier said curiously.

“Who the fuck’s Lysistrata?” Dugan asked. “What the hell. Let’s go into town and dig up some more to drink and you can tell me all about it.’

“Hey, Steve,” Bucky said, as they went to yank down the tent screen. “I feel real patriotic, having watched that. I feel like it’s the damn Fourth a’ July. Don’t you?” He gave the cloth a tug and it flopped down out of the tree, covering both of them. Bucky felt the overwhelming urge to just let it stay there, to grab for Steve under the cloth, but he thrashed his way free. Steve’s face was red when they came out from under it anyway, as if they _had_ done something.

“Barnes, do you and the Captain want to come along?” Dugan asked Bucky, carefully not looking at Steve.

“I don’t know, Cap doesn’t drink,” Bucky said quickly, “an’ I’ve had… too much ta drink,” slurring his words more than he would have anyhow.

“Okay then,” Dugan said.

“ _À demain_ ,” Dernier said cheerily.

“C’mon, Steve,” Bucky said, once the other men had receded into the distance. Dugan’s whooping laugh trailed behind them like the waving curl of a flag. “C’mon. I’m real hungry. I got us some stuff set up on that hill where we did recon in a farmhouse that got bombed. It’s all… c’mon, you gotta see.”

Bucky led Steve into the dark landscape at a pretty good clip, but Steve kept up with him all the way, not even breathing fast. He didn’t stumble, either. Bucky wondered if maybe Steve’s sight was better than his now.

Steve was still quiet, though.

“Hey,” Bucky said. “Are you worried ‘cause the guys were laughing?”

“No, it’s fine.” But Steve said it dismissively, like he didn’t want to talk about it—a sure sign that it did bother him and he just wouldn’t admit it. He was looking down at the ground, and even at this new angle, Bucky could see his eyes were downcast. He bumped sideways against Steve’s arm with his own, trying to reassure him.

“Steve, you gotta realize they laugh at you until they break through to respect you, that’s how you know they really—they—” He was a little drunk. He had to focus to spell it out the way he wanted to. “That’s how it is, you break through to them really trusting you.”

Steve glanced over at Bucky. “You think?”

“I mean, I run my mouth atcha all the time, punk. That’s how you know… that’s how you know I love you really—”

Bucky took several more steps before he realized that Steve had stopped right in his tracks, but Steve caught up quickly, pushing close. He put a hand around the back of Bucky’s neck. And his fingertips felt the same, sensitive and insistent. Bucky took a breath.

“Bucky . . .”

Bucky reached out, his hand settling on Steve’s jacket, over his ribs. It surprised Bucky all over again—the sheer size of him, the breadth of his chest. He had to tilt his chin up just to look into Steve’s face. “You gotta understand these guys are intimidated by you. That’s how it is here; you’re Captain America. You’re a fucking superhero, Steve.”

Steve made a face. “I’m not—”

“Sh. You are to us. So—so. Lemme think.”

“Oh, boy, we could be here all night.”

“Punk. You gotta _let_ them laugh at you a little bit. Because that way they feel like you’re theirs a little. Like you’re mine.” He slid his hands down Steve’s sides, shifting his weight, holding on to Steve because he felt like the rest of the world might be swirling all around him. “You’re mine, right?”

Steve nodded, smiling a little. His hand tightened, pulling Bucky closer, and Bucky fell toward him, still dizzy with drink, drawn to his warmth. “I’ve been yours for as long as I can remember.” He turned away, looking around cautiously. Bucky followed his gaze and saw nothing but dark trees. They were well out of sight of camp now.

Then he ducked his head and kissed Bucky. It was gentle, and Bucky wanted to press back more, wanted to move his tongue in between Steve’s lips but he didn’t—they weren’t safe yet. So he let Steve brush his lips with his own, let the softness of it move through him, spreading like warm water in his veins.

When Steve pulled away he let out a groan. “How much further, huh? Cause I feel like I’m gonna die.”

“Hey, pal.” Bucky’s hands had dropped, limp, by his sides, and then he put one up, grabbing for Steve’s belt, pulling him back. “I’m practically an expert on thinking I’m gonna die and lemme tell you, it puts things into perspective some.”

Steve was craning his neck down at Bucky, frowning now, his breath caught in his throat. “Oh, God, Bucky, I’m sorry—”

“No, don’t be sorry, just come here again, _please_ lemme just. Lemme.” Bucky dropped his hold on Steve’s belt and reached up to his face again, sliding his hands over his neck, over the pounding hot pulse under his ears, and pulled him down, and kissed him again the way he’d wanted to for such a long time. Their bodies pressed together. Steve’s hips came forward to his own and Bucky let his tongue delve hesitantly into Steve’s mouth, and they were shaking together and both hard and he pulled away with his breath coming real fast, and his hands were still plastered to Steve’s jaw, thumbs on his cheeks, not able to pull away. “God. I missed your face. I missed your face so much. I missed more of you than I knew there _was_.”

“I missed you so much,” Steve said, and swallowed, his eyes darting down, “I missed this so much, how you run your mouth. Your mouth...”

“Running my mouth,” Bucky said.

Steve kissed him again.

“How far?” Steve asked, hoarse, when he’d pulled away. Bucky blinked, dazed. “We have to wait, Bucky. We have to be careful.”

Bucky sighed. “You’re right. It’s just up there, see?” He pointed over the ridge to the house on the hill, on a cut-out terrace. The roof was cracked, its orange-red tile halfway a sliding pile of rubble, but one side of the building was intact. Bucky’d had to scout it out when they first got to this location.

“Say that again,” Steve said.

“It’s just up there, see?”

“No, jerk.”

“You’re right. You’re right. And when you’re right, you’re right. Come on.”

They scrambled over the terraced hill. Bucky smelled clover in the cool grass, he smelled dirt and the sweet green of growing things just touched by frost. He wouldn’t have to dig a foxhole tonight. The door hung half-open on its hinge when they got there, and Bucky scrambled through, into the drafty interior, almost tripping in his haste. John had given him a little light naphtha lamp.

“See, I got us a lamp,” he said, “It’s a special lamp that burns real low because of having light naphtha with six carbons in a chain isn’t that neat? It’s a magic lamp like the Thief of Bagdad. Make a wish. Make a wish. Make a—”

“I don’t _need_ to,” Steve said.

There was a wooden table in the middle of the room and it cracked and jarred when Bucky’s back bumped into it. Steve leaned forward over him with the wood digging into the backs of Bucky’s thighs and kissed him again, real enthusiastic. Bucky broke away long enough to say, “Guess I’m running my—”

And then Steve’s hands were wrapped around the back of his head again, tangled in his hair, long fingers against the delicate bones of his skull and Bucky planted his legs and made a low sound. Steve was panting hard, and Bucky wondered if he were aware of the way he was making little jerking thrusts forward. If Bucky were a girl he’d hook a leg around his—wait, he could anyway, so he did. He spread his legs out and hooked one knee around Steve’s leg. It threw them off balance. They spun around so Steve slammed down into a chair.

The wood was a little wet from recent rain that had fallen through the broken roof. It felt damp, and splintery, and cold, but Bucky didn’t care. Scrabbling at his belt buckle, he knelt in front of Steve, then fumbled with Steve’s pants, too, cupping the hard shape of his erection underneath. He couldn’t quite get a grip. The chair screeched back across the floor.

Things were going very fast, and now both their pants were undone and Bucky was straddling Steve, knees over him in the little rickety chair and one of Steve’s hands braced hard on the table to keep them from going over and then abruptly they _did_. They crashed over backwards onto the floor. The chair skidded sideways away and Steve caught them so Bucky came down still over him and Steve’s shirt was all ridden up and rumpled and Bucky’s hand was sliding up it and then down and they were rocking together on each other, and pausing to kiss, and he’d bumped his elbow a little falling but it didn’t matter.

 _Then_ he felt Steve’s hips jerk up and he was shuddering and choking out Bucky’s name and then he went, “Oh,” quietly, and there was wet on his stomach under Bucky’s hand and Bucky felt the tip of his dick twitch and go still.

He couldn’t help it, he _laughed_.

“I’m sorry,” Steve gasped out.

Bucky looked away, feeling bad for laughing, but when he looked down, Steve was smiling, though he looked a little dazed. He grabbed Bucky’s collar and tugged him down for a kiss.

“Sorry, but—” he broke off to kiss Bucky a second time, this time slower, his tongue licking into Bucky’s mouth for a moment before he let him go. “Don’t worry. I’ll be ready to go again soon.”

Bucky could feel that Steve was still hard, pushing at Bucky’s belly. “Geez,” he muttered. “If you’re this quick on the trigger in the field, soon there won’t be any Germans left.” It occurred to him—Steve was ready to go again, but for what? He took a deep breath. He wasn’t quite there himself, it was all the alcohol he guessed, but he kept moving his hips a little forward, rubbing himself against Steve. He looked down.

”Don’t stop. Please, Buck.” Steve craned his neck up for another kiss.

“Okay. What’re we gonna do now?” Bucky asked, in a whisper, breath brushing at Steve’s mouth. He ran a hand over Steve’s wet stomach and felt him tense. “You spilled your _sundae_ , Steve. I was gonna… you know what I _said_ I was gonna do…” Meanwhile, his fingers fumbled with Steve’s tie, undoing the knot of it. He whipped it out of Steve’s collar with a little hiss of fabric and paused there for a second, staring down. Their eyes met. Steve craned up, and Bucky leaned down to meet his hungry sucking lips, moving his hands down over his rumpled jacket and shirt, undoing buttons, sliding his hand under to feel the warmth—the radiating _heat_ , _that’s right, big bodies radiate greater heat—surface-area-to-volume_ , it was—hot skin on his hand.

“Steve,” Bucky whispered. He was saying his name too much, _Steve Steve Steve_. Like a conjuring spell, one that had worked. Or maybe he kept needing to remind himself that this was still Steve, this new version of him.

“Bucky,” Steve said, fond, one hand coming up, grasping its way up over his arm, to his back, pulling him closer.

“Steve,” Bucky whispered, his hips grinding lazily forward and back, his dick slipping a little in between Steve’s thighs. He felt Steve’s dick against his hip too. “You were gonna tell me recipes. What’re your recipes?” Steve was breathing heavily. Bucky glanced up and saw his eyes half-shut and a look of intent concentration on his face like when he was finishing a difficult drawing. “If you don’t tell me I’m gonna have to resort to spam and jam sandwiches.”

Steve was laughing now, choking, and shivering a little; Bucky pulled back, concerned, but that wasn’t him having trouble breathing. Steve said, “Hey. _You_ had to survive on spam and jam. It’s the least I can do to try some myself.”

“Okay. Do we get jam? Where’s the jam?” He licked at Steve’s neck and felt the vibration of his shaking vocal cords around a held-in laugh, or maybe a moan, he wasn’t sure. He sucked at the skin.

“Mm. I brought some. For later. Keep going.”

Sliding down further. “I want your spam in my sandwich, Steve,” he whispered into his collarbone, wondering what he meant by ‘I brought some’ but afraid to ask. He pulled up Steve’s undershirt all the way and ducked under it. He trailed his tongue down over the muscle of Steve’s chest to his nipple. Further down, over the slick line of hair that led to his navel. He stuck his tongue in experimentally. Steve’s stomach jumped up with a hard exhale.

“America needs your spam,” Bucky told him gravely, craning his neck back up, licking his lips. He felt shaky himself, trembling in his own skin. How was he gonna do this? Like he’d seen John. But not like that exactly. Like he’d seen in his dream, maybe. “Put some spam in the barrel of your best guy’s gun, Cap.”

“Good God,” Steve said, choked, and Bucky wasn’t sure if it was because of the bad jokes or because he’d blown a hot breath over the tip of Steve’s dick. Experimentally, he slid his tongue around the head of it, curling it over where Steve was still a little wet, pink and slick. He ran his hand over the vein at the bottom, tried taking in as much as he could fit into his mouth. He remembered Steve’s letters— _you make me ravenous—_

“You’re bigger,” he said, backing off for a second to swipe at his wet lips, then going for more.

“Yeah,” Steve murmured. “Is it okay?” He sounded anxious.

Bucky pulled back again. “Better ‘n’ okay but it’s not polite to talk with my mouth full.”

“Please, Bucky...”

Steve’s body was shaking again, with the tremor of a laugh that made it hard for Bucky to aim his cock into his mouth. He managed it, though.

Steve moved his hips up to match the movement of Bucky’s mouth now, faster and faster, a rhythm Bucky tried to match with his lips. He thought he scraped Steve with his teeth accidentally but he just felt a little shiver and heard him hiss and backed off again. They found a steady, hastening rhythm, Steve pushing his hips up and Bucky taking him down to the back of his throat, lips moving up and down with tight suction.

There was a pulse of warm liquid in his mouth, almost so he didn’t notice at first, and then more, and he swallowed. The taste lingered on his tongue, earthy. Almost sweet. He let Steve’s dick slide out of his mouth and sat back and sighed, and felt for the first time how hot _he_ was, how tight with need and almost ready to go himself. There was Steve, lying back and he looked at Bucky wide-eyed and disheveled, and Bucky gave him a big grin and licked his lips.

Bucky pushed himself up, climbing Steve’s body. Steve's ribs were moving in and out. The naphtha lamp threw everything into shifting, flickering shadow.

He buried his face in the skin of Steve’s stomach and inhaled. “You still smell the same,” he mumbled, but it wasn’t quite true. He smelled like Army cotton instead of cheap starch. But underneath, even warmer: that was the same. “And you taste like I imagined. Better’n a sundae. I imagined doing this a lot. More than I should admit.”

He kept his hand on Steve’s dick, feeling the skin of it, warm and solid in his hand, liking how the idle rub of his thumb over the tip made Steve part his lips and breathe faster, as he saw when he tilted his head up to look.

“You got no idea…”

“Got some idea,” Bucky said, echoing his earlier words, and then, tightening his grip on Steve’s dick, “You’re still ready, huh? Wow, how can you—I mean, _twice_ , Steve, right in a row.”

Steve grabbed his arm and pulled him up so their faces were close. “Stand down, Sergeant.”

“That’s gonna be a little hard,” Bucky said, pulling his hand free and wrapping it right back around Steve. “That’s gonna be a _lot_ hard.”

Bucky tightened his fingers, and Steve groaned and said, “Wait, Buck, I—” He twined one hand into Bucky’s hair, holding him still for a kiss, and shoved his other hand up under Bucky’s shirt.

“And to think I was worried about you when I read about the three sundaes,” Bucky said. “I thought you were gonna tire yourself out, get sick.” He stroked Steve’s dick almost casually, making it jerk up into his hand like it had a mind of its own. “Yeah, c’mon.” He bent his head and gave a teasing lick to the tip of Steve’s dick.

“Bucky, wait, I want to—”

“I bet I could get you to come again.”

Steve let out a groan. “I’m sure you could.” He grabbed Bucky and rolled them over till Bucky was flat on his back. “And I want you to. But for now, _stand down_.”

Bucky opened his mouth, but he’d run out of smart-ass remarks. Steve was hovering over him on all fours, and he was just so damn _big_. Steve smiled—a little smug—and reached down to rub at Bucky’s dick through his pants. Then he leaned down and kissed him, one hand sliding under Bucky’s neck.

“You did warn me,” Steve said. He lowered himself down, not his full weight, but just enough that his hips could push against Bucky’s. Their dicks nudged together through the half-undone mess of their clothes. “You said you’d take all the whipped cream and not leave any for me.”

Bucky barked a short laugh and opened his eyes to see the blush he knew would be spreading across Steve’s cheeks. And it was there, all right, but he was also looking at Bucky like he was about to eat him alive.

“God, Bucky, I want—” Steve kissed Bucky again, then pushed up and moved away. He grabbed Bucky’s arm and tugged at it to make him sit up. “Take off your clothes.”

Bucky shrugged off his jacket and started to pull off his sweater, but then Steve’s hands were on him, turning him into the light.

“Wait,” Steve said. “I want to see.”

“What?”

“The shrapnel. You never explained.” Steve reached out and dragged the lantern a little closer. “How the hell could you put something like that in a letter and not explain? I need to see it.”

Bucky pulled the sweater the rest of the way off and let Steve manhandle him so that his back was towards the lamp. Steve’s fingers trailed from Bucky’s shoulder down his side, making him shiver.

"You're not one to talk about not... explaining..." But he faltered and tapered off, caught up in feeling.

Steve leaned down to peer closely at Bucky’s back. “I kept telling myself that it couldn’t have been bad because it if had been, they’d have sent you home.”

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t’ve written that.”

Steve dragged his fingertips over the light scars. Just tracing them, so carefully. Bucky heard his breath hiss.

“It doesn’t hurt. It’s just scars,” Bucky said. “It was just like… it was like falling down in gravel.” The pressure of Steve’s fingers increased. “That’s it… it’s like… no, keep going, that doesn’t hurt, you don’t gotta be gentle, that’s—”

Bucky broke off when Steve lowered his head and pressed his lips to the worst of the marks, a few inches to the left of his spine. Steve’s hand slid around Bucky’s waist, cradling his ribcage, skimming over his stomach, then shoving down into his pants. His lips moved up Bucky’s back, mouthing at the shrapnel scars, his tongue wet and warm. His hand wrapped around Bucky’s dick, but after a few strokes Steve pulled away.

“Don’t stop,” Bucky moaned, but any further protest died in his throat when he turned and saw that Steve had gotten out of his coat and was pulling off his already-unbuttoned shirt.

Bucky had started to get used to Steve’s face. Even with the stronger jaw—and how was it that even his hair looked healthier somehow?—his eyes were the same. But it would take a while before Bucky got used to the rest of Steve’s new body. The strong column of his neck. The daunting width of his shoulders.

Steve’s eyes darted over to Bucky, obviously wanting to see how he was reacting. Bucky could only stare, but Steve smiled a little as he ducked his head, before standing up to toe off his boots and kick off his pants. From where Bucky was, sitting down on the floor, Steve looked even taller. He was still watching Bucky, not anxious exactly, but on edge, waiting.

“Wow,” Bucky said. “Wow, Steve.”

Steve’s face flushed a darker red, but he smiled. And that smile: it was like the time when they were kids and Mrs. Rogers found a second-hand train set for Steve’s Christmas present. The look on Steve’s face was the same—like he was almost more excited to share it with Bucky than he was to have it for himself. It was too much, like having a too-bright light shining in your face.

“Geez,” Bucky said, shaking his head. He kept staring at Steve’s body, but it was suddenly hard to meet his eyes. He felt tingling electricity all through his skin, the surreality of a landscape illuminated by sudden lightning inside of himself. “You look… you look like a statue. In a museum. You look like one of those statues you’d take me to see. You look like a statue that’d last for a thousand _years_. You look _immortal_... c’mere, I wanna make sure you’re real, c’mere.”

Bucky realized he wasn’t sure what exactly he intended to do, hadn’t necessarily thought further than the suckjob. He knew there was more stuff you _could_ do… Steve’s recipes… he just realized in real life you couldn’t skip over the parts you didn’t want to imagine. He wanted to put his hand down on his dick and take care of himself, but Steve was right here. And he was gonna.

“Okay,” Bucky said finally, “Okay, Cap, c’mon, tell me what to do.”

Steve’s eyebrows went up, and he smiled. It was the kind of smile not everyone got to see on Steve’s face—a little sly. People thought he was so serious and earnest. And yeah, maybe he was a lot of the time. But he had a sense of humor too. Folks seemed to miss that.

“Tell you what to do, huh?” Steve knelt next to Bucky and pushed close for a quick kiss. “Okay.” He spread their coats out and shoved Bucky toward them. “Lie down.”

His tone brooked no argument, and when Bucky obeyed, Steve grabbed Bucky’s boots, tearing at the laces, then yanked his pants off too. Bucky helped, kicking his way free. The air was chilly on his bare skin, but Steve settled down next to him, his skin hot all along Bucky’s right side.

“I do have an awful lot of recipes I want to try.”

Steve’s hand was making its way down Bucky’s chest, definitely heading south. Bucky expected Steve to go right for his dick, but he didn’t, instead letting his hand stop on Bucky’s hip.

“You gonna tell me what to do or what?”

“Yeah, shut up and kiss me.”

Bucky tilted his chin up, and Steve gave him a lingering kiss, with just a slight swipe of his tongue at the end of it. Steve’s hard dick was pressed up against Bucky’s leg. Maybe he’d get on top, and they could just rub against each other—that had been good when they’d first gotten going. But Steve started trailing his mouth over Bucky’s chest, excruciatingly slow. He shifted lower, licking down Bucky’s ribcage. God, he was gonna use his mouth.

“You said you learned some stuff from that guy in California. That he was nice about it—the cooking lessons, I mean. That he told you stuff.”

“Mm.” Steve sounded distracted. He was nuzzling at Bucky’s belly now, still lying mostly on his side, his big body curled around awkwardly. He got up on all fours and pushed Bucky’s knees apart so he could move between them. Then Steve lowered his head, and Bucky held his breath, but Steve only pressed a kiss to his hipbone.

“Did he..." He was going to say something about testing recipes but couldn't muster the flippancy. "Did he kiss you?” Steve kissed differently than he had remembered. Maybe he'd practiced.

"What?” Steve lifted his head and squinted. “He tried. Why? Are you jealous?” When Bucky just rolled his head back and shut his eyes, he said, “You were jealous of the lunkhead, weren’t you?”

“No.” Bucky opened his eyes and stared up at the dim broken ceiling.

Steve crawled up until their faces were level. He was wearing a huge grin, and Bucky smiled back in spite of himself.

“You were,” Steve said. “Cause I talked about him so much.”

“I was not.”

Steve lowered his body until the hard length of his dick lined up right along Bucky’s, sliding together as Steve canted his hips. He whispered in Bucky’s ear, his breath hot. “And I guess I did have Captain America’s hands on me an awful lot, technically speaking.”

Bucky let out a snort of laughter. “Aw, that’s just—”

Steve cut him off with a kiss, and he was laughing too. Bucky wrapped his arms around Steve’s body to hold him there, feeling his torso quaking with his smothered laughter, and it wasn’t anything like Bucky’d imagined—Steve was too tall, too wide—but it was kind of nice the way he covered Bucky completely when he was on top of him like this, like a warm blanket of Steve all over.

“Don’t worry,” Steve said. There was still a hint of humor in his voice. “Even with the Captain’s hands on me, I was thinking of you.” He stole another kiss.

“Me too. I mean _my_ hands. Thought I was gonna go blind how much,” and he stopped, and shivered, because Steve’s lips had slid over his cheek to his neck and paused there on a pulse point that made him _feel_ blind, blinded by pleasure. “Yeah. Stevie.”

“God, I missed you. I thought about you all the time. I—” Steve stopped and pushed up so that he could look down into Bucky’s face, his expression serious. “I love you too. I didn’t say it before, outside. But you know that, right?”

Bucky didn’t know how to answer. Of course, he knew, but when he’d said that before, it had kind of slipped out. He didn’t really know if they were supposed to talk about it. Letters were different. “Course I do.”

That must have been enough for Steve. He smiled and kissed Bucky again before moving away, sliding down Bucky’s body. He wrapped his mouth around Bucky’s dick. It was good, a light flickering tickle—though Steve was being careful, his movements tentative.

Bucky reached down and rested one hand on top of Steve’s head. “That’s fine, fine like _silk_...”

Steve moaned, and it felt _so_ good, the vibrations of it with the close, wet heat. He lifted his head and took a deep, shuddering breath. “Geez, Buck, that silk you sent me. I’m surprised I didn’t wear it out.” He licked a hot stripe up Bucky’s dick from base to tip. “I wrapped it around my hand, pretended it was you touching me—just different enough.”

“I did that, too, but just—oh, God.” Steve was teasing the tip of his dick with his tongue just a little, looking up at him, and Bucky had to shut his eyes against it all, then blink them open. Steve was still there. It was like opening his eyes into a dream. “But—with just my hand.” He let his hand drift down to touch Steve’s hair again.

Steve took Bucky into his mouth, sucking so hard it almost hurt, taking it too deep. He had to back off a little, coughing, but he used his hand, wrapping it around the shaft while he mouthed at the tip with his lips and tongue.

“Yeah, good, like that,” Bucky said, “ _Your_ hand, it’s like I—”

Steve shifted between Bucky’s knees, moving lower to the ground, like he was getting comfortable, settling in for a good long time, but after only a few more teasing swipes of his tongue, he pulled away.

“Steve.” It came out kind of whiny. Like Lou when he didn’t get his coffee. Only Lou was dead.

“Just a minute.”

Bucky reached out. “Wait.”

Steve turned back and frowned with mock sternness. “Don’t move, soldier.”

“Where’re you going?”

“Getting that jam.”

He was in over his head for sure. Did Steve know what he was doing? Did he ever? But things would turn out fine anyway. They would. He was here. He was still here.

So Bucky didn’t argue. He watched Steve fumble through their pile of discarded clothes, then he came right back, shoving between Bucky’s legs, and this time Bucky didn’t hesitate to just spread his knees to make room. Steve pressed a kiss to Bucky’s thigh as he fumbled with something in his hands. Then finally, _finally_ , he wrapped his hand around Bucky’s dick again.

“Whatcha got there?” Bucky was looking up at the ceiling, out at the darkening sliver of blue-black sky he could see through the broken roof. He’d picked this building because. Partly because. He didn’t like not being able to see the sky. He wasn’t _scared_ , exactly—

“Maybe not jam, come to think of it,” Steve said, teasing. “It’s not sticky.”

“What?” Bucky breathed out and relaxed, focused on feeling. Whatever Steve was doing, his hands felt good. Warm, almost as wet as his mouth, long and nimble and just a little teasing, hesitant; Bucky thought he could feel each imprint of each tiny line on the pads of his fingers.

“More . . . slippery.”

With one hand still gently stroking, Steve’s other hand moved down to rub behind Bucky’s balls. But when Bucky froze, so did Steve’s fingers.

“Bucky? This okay?”

“Yeah.” But Bucky could hear the doubt in his own voice, and he couldn’t help squirming a little.

Steve’s hand locked onto Bucky’s hip, and his first impulse was to wriggle away, but no, it made it easier to take the probing movements of Steve’s fingers as they slid lower.

“You’ll like it,” Steve whispered. “I promise.”

Bucky focused on the feeling of Steve’s hand clamped hard on his hip, grounding him as the fingers of his other hand slipped between the cheeks of Bucky’s ass and skimmed slow circles around and around, making everything slick.

It wasn’t jam, for sure. He’d heard things. “Are—are you gonna—” It felt tight for a second, painful, his muscles were locked up and then let go; too many sensations, all at the same time. _What are you feeling now_ —no no no—he breathed out and said, “Steve,” because he could be brave, he had been brave, this wasn’t even something to be afraid of; he said, “Okay, keep guh—”

Steve had slipped a finger in his ass… no, he’d been working it around the edge a little bit, which made sense. He had asked John about this briefly. John had looked up at the tent ceiling, squinted, polished the spectacles he wore when no one was looking, and said, ‘Look, it’s a question of the gradual application of force in the presence of a lubricating agent.’ And then Billie had come by with smuggled apples and that had been the end of that. A lubricating agent, okay; it felt… Nora Harris had sometimes used Vaseline because she was dry and—

But this wasn’t the same as that because… now Steve’s finger was in him pretty deep, and, it felt like, hooked over. He felt a little roughness and then he felt pressure and then he felt _something_ and he said, “Oh, okay. Okay.” There was pressure shooting up him, pressure from what felt like his damn spine all the way down into his dick and it was so hard, so much from, from just a touch, and then Steve’s mouth on him too. His mouth pulled at Bucky just enough. It wasn’t too much. He was here. He was—

He was moving a little, just a little. Steve’s hand and mouth followed him. There. He wasn’t thinking now. He was just buried in the mess of feeling. In a storm that shook them, shook him, both inside out, whirling and swift as a tornado and then he opened his eyes to dark blue sky and the wet of Steve’s mouth and he came, a release. Pulsing his own wet there, he felt Steve swallow down his spunk with slow movements of his tongue and throat. His jaw relaxed. His lips tightened and then loosened, and he backed off, sliding off Bucky and letting him go.

He slid his finger out, too, and Bucky felt a momentary cold and then the wet of not-jam maybe-petroleum-oil. He settled his ass on the floor experimentally. It didn’t hurt. He looked down at Steve, who was crawling up alongside him, almost clumsy. Steve gave a sigh, deep and hearty, not at all the usual thready Steve-sigh he was used to from home but better, of course it was better, it was nothing he could imagine and it was better.

Steve lay his head on Bucky’s shoulder and flung a leg over him. The movement was too fast, full of held-in energy. Bucky had settled now and felt cool and languid in his skin, but Steve looked flushed. He was rutting against Bucky’s hip, actually, and reached down between them to put one of his hands on himself.

“Aw. Lemme take care of you… you did good, punk.” Bucky pulled him closer; Steve shifted so he was on top, and higher up, too, and couldn’t seem to keep his hips still.

“Can I—?” Steve gasped.

Bucky tucked his head down. “I don’t know, Steve.”

“Bucky?” The movements of Steve’s hips had stopped. “Oh, no, I didn’t—not—not _that_. That was a just . . . a recipe. Just to make you—I just need—” He was moving again now, sliding his dick against Bucky’s belly. “Just like this? Okay?”

Bucky’s forehead was mashed against Steve’s collarbone, but he nodded as best he could. Steve’s hands slid under Bucky’s head and neck, turning his face up to kiss him. His hips were pushing into Bucky’s, slowly at first, but after a couple of thrusts, the movements got fast and clumsy. He groaned out Bucky’s name, and a slick heat spread between them. Steve’s hips jerked again, and Bucky clasped him tighter, arms catching on Steve’s lower back, pulling him in close, almost smothering himself under his heat and _not caring_. Steve jerked again, and then went limp and still.

“Bucky.” Steve kissed him. “God, Bucky, that was—” Pushing up on his elbows, Steve gave Bucky a dopey smile. “Geez, I must be crushing you.”

Bucky shook his head, but Steve shifted over to the side anyway, their skin parting with an obscene wet sound. He stayed close, though, propped up on one elbow and looking at Bucky. His gaze slid down and he grimaced at the mess. “Here.” After turning to grab his undershirt off the floor behind him, he swiped it across Bucky’s belly. “Wait, what is that? Did I—?” He leaned close and ran his fingers over Bucky’s hipbone. “Did I hurt you?”

“What? No.” Bucky sat up and craned his neck. “What are you—?”

Steve’s was peering at what looked like a purplish bruise on Bucky’s skin, just where Steve’s hand had been holding him down. Steve looked horrified. He looked at Bucky’s face and started to apologize, but then he reached out and gently pushed Bucky’s chin to one side.

“Is that—?” Steve licked his thumb and rubbed at a spot on Bucky’s neck. “I think it’s the candy.”

“What?”

Steve’s expression had softened into a smile now. “From the M&Ms—the dye is on your skin.”

Bucky looked down and saw a similar dark smudge on Steve’s chest, where Bucky had licked at his nipple. The mark was dark purple, a mix of the red-green-yellow-purple candies they’d been eating.

“Huh, yeah. Sweet as sugar,” Bucky said, licking at it again, to be sure. “Though that could be just you.”

After another lazy kiss, Steve settled down with his head on Bucky’s shoulder. Skimming his thumb over the dye on Bucky’s hip, he stifled a yawn, then nuzzled at the side of Bucky’s head. “Colors all over the whole wide world.”

“Wait, what was that?”

“The colors,” Steve said, draping his leg over Bucky’s. “Like your island. This can be our treehouse.”

The letter. Steve was talking about that damn letter. The letter that got Bucky into so much trouble. The letter that _was never sent._ “What, can you read minds now too?”

Steve’s head snapped up—he wasn’t sleepy anymore. “Oh.” He avoided Bucky’s gaze. “I kind of peeked at your file.”

“Oh.” Bucky thought for a minute about that. His jaw worked silently. He said, “‘Course you did. So that was in there, huh? What’d—I gotta ask. What’d you see?”

“Well, there was your letter, Buck. And there was a transcript—all those questions they asked you.”

“Jesus.” Bucky shivered. He said, “Look, that wasn’t bad as it seemed. They let me off because… well, because I’m such a crack shot, y’see, and—”

“It seemed pretty bad.” Steve didn’t fall for his bragging evasion, just looked at him levelly.

Bucky couldn’t look away. He tried. He said, “I’m sorry… oh, no. I guess they caught on to you, then, too. Steven Grant Rogers. You saw that? They didn’t—Steve, you gotta tell me, please, be honest, did they ask you any questions? Phillips or—”

“No, I didn’t know anything about it until I saw the file. And Phillips—” Steve hesitated. “He didn’t ask me anything about the letter. And I took it. I just took it right out of the file, so no one else will read it.”

“Of all the letters that was the one they caught," Bucky said. "Like the ice cream talk was okay but God forbid I talk about—about—” His eyes were wet. He rubbed a hand up hard over his face and sniffed, and got snot and spit on the hairs that rose on the back of his arm.

“You won’t have to write letters anymore. Cause I’m right here. You can whisper right in my ear, and no one will hear but me.” Steve didn’t seem to notice or care about the snot when he wrapped him up in his big arms. Bucky tipped his chin down—he still didn’t like to leave his neck open to the air like that—and buried his face against Steve’s chest. The beat of his heart was so slow and strong. Like the thump of waves crashing against the side of a ship.

“I’m sorry.” Steve spoke into Bucky’s hair, pressing his lips right at the tender itchy top of Bucky’s scalp. “I’m so sorry. I wish I’d been there with you. You shouldn’t have had to do that alone.”

“I thought you were never gonna see that one.” Bucky’s words came out muffled, too, against Steve’s skin. It was like they still had to say whatever they said in a hidden way. They’d gotten so used to it.

But then Steve lifted his face away from Bucky’s hair and he spoke firmly. Of course he did. _He_ wasn’t scared. “I’m not sorry I saw it. It was beautiful, Bucky, really. I loved it. But sad too. I don’t want you to think the only place we can have this is in some fantasy land. We’re here now, aren’t we?”

“Still here,” Bucky murmured, automatic, and Steve’s grip had loosened, so he leaned away and looked up. Steve was looking back at him so earnestly. The blur of alcohol had begun to wear off and he was… yes. This was real. They were here. _I’m still here_. He’d repeated that so many times, when he thought he was gonna die, just to remind himself. He’d thought he’d cracked up when he first saw Steve, that all those colors had fragmented and blown them away, except here he was, with the sticky ache of petroleum in his ass, and Steve big and warm and right on top of him. “It’s different but it’s the same,” he said. “And the world’s still the same, even if you are different, you know. We can’t just... ” He trailed off. He didn’t want to say what he wished they _could_ just do.

“I know that we have to be careful. I know that. And I know that there could be consequences, even for Captain America. Even for the best damn sniper the army’s got. But I don’t want to live without this.” He tightened his grip around Bucky’s ribs again. “I _can’t_ live without it, without you.”

Bucky sucked in a breath. “Don’t say that. Don’t make me start talking about luck, Steve, I won’t do it, I don’t wanna think about the coin toss right now.”

“I’m sorry, Buck, I just—”

“No, I’m sorry. Howabout this. Howabout it. The island. Not Brooklyn. The other island.”

“It feels like we’re there,” Steve said.

“Nah… we’re still here. But here’s not bad,” Bucky said. “It ain’t too bad.”

They kissed, clumsy and sideways all crushed together. Bucky said, after, with their lips still touching, “You know I’m—I’m kinda tapped out on words. Been running… been running my mouth for a long…” They kissed again, and then Bucky let his head drop to the side, loose, pillowed on his shoulder, which was resting on the curve of Steve’s supporting arm. They were so twined together he didn’t know where his own skin ended or began. “Whyn’t you tell me the story for now.”

“I’m not poetic like you.”

“You’re real convincing, though,” Bucky said. “I shouldn’t’ve shut you up. I don’t know. It’s hard.”

“Maybe it is hard,” Steve said, “but maybe that’s not a totally bad thing.”

“Yeah, when have you ever done things the easy way?”

“No, I mean it. There’s part of me that’s glad it’s not easy.” Steve pulled away a little, pushing up on one elbow. “You know, I can hardly remember a time when you weren’t everything to me.”

“Steve—”

“I’ve loved you since before I knew how to put a name to it. That’s the easy part. But if everything was that easy? Maybe I wouldn’t trust it. I would worry that maybe I just felt the way I did because you were familiar, already like family. Or maybe that I latched on to you because I was too shy to talk to girls, or because you were the only one who could put up with me.”

“Well, you are kind of a pain in the ass.” Bucky reached out, though, and pulled Steve back toward him. It was hard to listen to this, and he didn’t know why. It was hard to listen to him all serious like this. Holding him closer helped. He could listen to the words thrum through both of their skins.

“No, listen—I’ve thought about this a lot. It’s _because_ things are hard that I’m so sure that this is what I want. I keep thinking about the risk of it—for months, even before I saw all those questions in your file. Maybe it’s a risk, but it’s worth it. Every time I think about it, I decide _hell yes_ , it’s worth it.” His arms wrapped a little tighter around Bucky’s body.

“Okay,” Bucky said. He sighed into the warm curve of Steve’s neck, then tipped his head back to look him in the eye. “You win. I guess you win the coin toss, then. Worth it. I guess you are, punk.”

“I win, huh?” Steve said.

Bucky wrinkled his nose. “Yeah, you win. We know who’s in charge.”

* * *

 He woke hours later to Steve staring at him, propped up on one elbow again, a dreamy sort of smile on his face.

"Did you sleep at all?” Bucky said as he scrubbed at his dry eyes with his knuckles. “Or did you spend the whole night looking at me like a big sap?"

When he looked again, Steve’s goofy grin had only grown wider. Then his hips twitched a little, pressing his morning hard-on against Bucky’s thigh.

Bucky groaned. “It’s early.”

“It’s okay. Go back to sleep if you want.”

But as he said that, Steve was sliding his mouth down Bucky’s ribs. He nudged Bucky to roll over onto his back and curled himself onto his side, resting his head on Bucky’s stomach then inching down to close his lips around Bucky’s dick. His tongue stroked on the underside, slowly, pulling Bucky into pleasure so gently it was like slipping into a tepid bath—just a little warmer than your skin. So you could hardly feel it. Little by little, Steve took Bucky deeper in his mouth.

Bucky could almost _hear_ Steve thinking—planning out his next move, keeping himself reined in so that he didn’t go too fast. But that was fine; Bucky was still half asleep. He didn’t want fast. The slow, wet warmth of Steve’s mouth was just right. Bucky closed his eyes—just to _feel_ it—but suddenly Steve pulled away.

“This okay?”

Bucky looked down at him. He’d twisted his neck awkwardly to see Bucky’s face. He was smiling a little, but his eyebrows sat at an uncertain angle. Bucky threaded his hand through Steve’s hair. “More than okay.”

They kept reassuring each other that they really did want this. Bucky supposed they needed to do that, for now.

Steve’s body was shifting, his arm moving—he was touching himself. Bucky wanted to object—Steve shouldn’t have to take care of himself while Bucky was right here—but as Bucky opened his mouth to say just that, Steve’s other hand wrapped itself around Bucky’s dick. It felt good, so Bucky put off objecting for a little while. He could see that Steve was jerking himself a lot faster and harder than the careful way he was touching Bucky.

“You’re a lot more—” Bucky started. He stopped to stifle a moan. Steve’s hand had twisted somehow, rubbing just right at the tip of Bucky’s dick. It sent a jolt of electricity through his body and choked off his teasing.

“What’d you say?” Steve sounded a little breathless.

“A lot more coordinated than you used to be.”

Steve let out a huffing laugh, then bent down again. He wrapped his mouth around just the head and nudged at the slit with his tongue.

“You… Jesus,” Bucky said. He felt himself still floating half-submerged in the briny cling of sleep. “I dreamed about this,” he murmured. “Not—not last night, but—a lot, Steve, all the time, you were right in my actual dreams. I didn’t even have to imagine sometimes, you were… oh.” Steve had done something with his mouth, pulling Bucky in with suction he felt all the way through himself, shooting up his spine. He felt it down his legs, even, down into his toes. “I couldn’t’ve imagined it like this any—anyhow…”

Steve pulled off again, and Bucky expected him to say something, but he didn’t. He just kept investigating every inch of Bucky’s dick with his tongue, still nice and slow but leaving a tingling trail wherever he’d already explored. By the time he took Bucky into his mouth again, Bucky felt hot all over.

“I thought about your fingers,” Bucky said. He was rambling a little now, but he liked that: being able to say things without thinking, for once, to just say anything that came to him. Not a joke or a euphemism. “I thought about how graceful you are with a paintbrush and then I thought about your hands on me, all over, and I was right, I was right—” He broke off. “ _You_ were right last night, it was so good, that thing you did, it was so fucking.” Another breath. “Good. And your mouth, too, I didn’t think enough about your _mouth_ , oh my God Steve it feels so good, it’s the best, you’re the best.”

Steve let out an appreciative hum and his hand squeezed Bucky’s leg, but he didn’t stop. His tongue stroking the sensitive ridge of flesh around the head, not gentle or teasing now—insistent. Bucky let himself push up into Steve’s mouth, just a little. He didn’t think he was all that close, but when Steve gave one good suck, pulling Bucky’s dick all the way to the back of his throat, it was like somebody flipped a switch, and Bucky was coming. Steve let out a surprised grunt, but he swallowed it down. His hand was digging into the meat of Bucky’s thigh, and he kept going—sucking and mouthing at Bucky’s dick even after it had gone soft.

“That was good, Stevie.” Bucky realized his fingers were clenched in Steve’s hair. He relaxed his grip and smoothed down the mess a little. “Real good.”

But Steve didn’t answer. His head was still resting on Bucky’s belly, and it wasn’t until he let out a groan that Bucky realized he was still stroking himself—it only took a few seconds before he came, his shoulders shaking. Bucky felt a little like he’d missed out, but it was kinda sweet, how eager Steve was. Like he couldn’t wait two minutes for Bucky to catch his breath.

“I woulda helped with that, you know,” Bucky said.

“I know.” Steve collapsed next to Bucky with a sigh, throwing one arm over Bucky’s chest and pushing up close for a kiss. When he pulled away, he was smiling, looking mighty pleased with himself.

“Always in such a rush,” Bucky said. He felt the pressure of time himself, though. The night had gone by fast, and they only had two days of furlough before they had to head out into the field. He didn’t want to think about that. He ran his hand through Steve’s hair again, instead.

He could see outside from here. Taller hills surrounded the terrace their little house inhabited. He could see them rising up through the broken rafters of the roof: soft, round shapes in the dim predawn light. Dark hills pockmarked with lighter treeless patches where the Germans or the Allies had shelled. The sky had taken on a tinge of pale purple. A glow of orange lit the hills as if they were volcanoes, like Mount Etna back in Sicily.

The air slid in cool and humming with the rising up of dawn. Light sang in the sky. Pink streaks spread there, chased by purple, cut by the white of clouds and contrails left by planes and rockets.

Steve pulled him closer with a sated sigh. “What are you thinking?” he said. “You look like you’re thinking about something.”

Bucky ran a hand over Steve’s hair, stopping to brush a little back off his forehead. “I was wondering what you see when you look up there,” he said. “You see color now, right? Does everything look different? Is it like you imagined?”

Steve looked at him with a little squint. Bucky had meant for him to look at the sky. It still felt like almost too much to be the sole focus of Steve’s gaze, so close: in his arms, with the memory of his warm mouth and his fingers and his whole body all over Bucky’s. “It’s…” Steve blinked his eyes closed for a moment, as he did just before he put pencil to paper on a new drawing. Pulled inside his own head to focus. Making an honest, careful assessment of himself. “It’s like tasting a new kind of fruit I didn’t know existed.”

“A kind of fruit, huh?” Bucky said.

“You jerk… you wrote the same thing in your letter. You know what I mean. No. It’s like the first time I tasted an orange, or a pineapple. It’s such a surprise, but it makes so much sense. It’s like I was starving for it all along.”

“Yeah,” Bucky said. “So sweet your eyes water and you have to squeeze ‘em shut. And nothing you could’ve expected. But good.”

“So good.” Steve settled next to him again, hooking his knee in with Bucky’s so Bucky rolled a little over him. “But different. Is…” The tone of his voice changed, went cautious. “Do you… is it all right? Not being what you expected, I mean.”

Bucky pulled back so he could look Steve right in the eye, propping himself up on his elbow. “Of course it is.”

“Because I know I’m a lot—”

“A lot what? Stronger. Healthier? That’s great. That’s—I mean that’s a good thing.”

“Bigger.”

“I told you, I like that.”

Steve still had on his questioning look, like when he’d told Bucky about the guys calling him _Tinkerbell_. Bucky said, “It’s not the same, but nothing’s the same. I’m not the same either, and it’s not… I mean nothing’s perfect. But we’re still here, so anything extra’s just so much velvet, I guess.”

“Just so much _silk_ ,” Steve said, pulling him close again.

Bucky breathed out a laugh. “Yeah.”

“The sun’s coming up.” Steve nudged at Bucky’s ear with his nose, then lifted his head and grinned. “It’s a new day.”

“So fucking optimistic.” Bucky rolled his eyes, but it was hard not to smile back when Steve had that goofy grin on his face. Even though he felt a little tense, like he oughtta be jumping up for reveille. They didn’t have to—they had two whole days—but he felt edgy. He shifted, looking out through the broken roof at the sky.

“Look at me, Buck.” Steve touched Bucky’s cheek, gently at first, then hard enough to turn his head. “Just look at me.”

Bucky’d been looking at Steve all night, but it was still hard to believe. He blinked, dazzled by his first sight of the sun, and looked. There he was. Big as life; bigger, and right up close, his arms still wrapped around Bucky. Steve, big and strong and healthy.

A lifetime of worry—about Steve’s lungs and heart, his crooked spine, his bad eyes, not to mention the way he dove into fights he couldn’t finish—was gone like magic. Now there was a whole new set of things that could kill Steve. All the serum in the world wouldn’t stop a Panzer from blowing a hole through him, right through the star blazoned like a target on his chest. But if it was all a gamble anyway, shouldn’t they hold onto any winning hands they were dealt?

“The world is changing,” Steve said. “It’s going to be better after the war.”

Bucky could tell he really believed that. “Geez. I can practically hear ‘The Star Spangled Man’ playing in the background, Cap.” Only there were no stars visible now. The sun was already too bright. It had washed the sky from a dark to an ever-lighter blue.

“Yeah, so?” Steve said. “It might be propaganda, but that doesn’t mean there’s no truth in it.”

Bucky sighed. He couldn’t stare down Steve like this; he couldn’t before, though he’d tried, and he couldn’t now, and he didn’t even want to try. Maybe Steve felt the same way, because he pulled Bucky close again, pressing a kiss to his temple.

“Okay, pal,” Bucky said. “For my part, though, I’m just glad I’m here for now.” Here, for now, in the hard circle of Steve’s arms. For some reason Bucky thought about that night he smoked cigarettes with Lou. He thought about Brooklyn fire escapes. The way their bars made a cage. The way you could stay inside that cage and feel safe, and feel at home. “Just glad I got you.”

From very far away, he heard the sound of bugles. The sun blazed in through the roof, a bright cool white November sun, rays shifting and catching on little pebbles strewn across the dirty cracked wood floor. Steve’s stomach grumbled.

“Hungry, huh?” Bucky said. “Still?”

Steve gave him that sly smile. “Told you my appetite was bigger these days.”

Bucky leaned over him again, lingering. Just kissing him still felt amazing, astounding. It was like he’d found a miraculous shortcut to all the yapping he used to do, like his own open mouth had been hungry for something that wasn’t just an answer to words. They kissed each other again. Their mouths had gotten a little dry, though; Bucky thought he really should’ve brought some water. They couldn’t, he guessed, stay here forever.

"We better go get breakfast, though, for real," Bucky said. He rolled reluctantly away from Steve and sat up, running a hand through his hair, then over his face. He tried to rub the sleep out of his eyes. Steve sat up too. He made the same gestures he used to, sort of, but streamlined. His elbow still canted up at that funny, childish angle when he covered a yawn.

"Eggs on a shovel?" Steve pushed himself all the way up and walked over to the chair they had knocked over backwards. He crouched next to it, frowning a little, then glanced back at Bucky. Bucky watched how he moved, naked and clumsy and graceful at once. He was so altered in scale that the chair seemed like a toy next to him. "What'd that mean anyhow?"

"Oh—those were really eggs."

"Oh," Steve said, sounding disappointed.

"Looks like a bomb went off in here,” Bucky said, a joke because one had, even before they’d arrived. The chair had two broken legs now. That wasn't from the bomb. That was from them.

Steve looked around. “Boy, we wrecked the place.”

The table had cracked, too, and their clothes were strewn all over, wrinkled and stretched. Bucky felt a little cold now that he was out of Steve’s hold, so he took to sorting out their stuff, trying to figure whose was whose. Steve, meanwhile, set to trying to fit the disconnected legs of the chair back in their little chiseled holes. Rooting through their clothes, Bucky saw the ‘jam’ Steve had been using: it was a jar of white petroleum jelly. Better to use petroleum for this, he guessed, than shooting up a smoke cover. He looked at the bottom of the bottle. It had a faint mark from a price tag and the state label CA. Steve, the nut, had brought it all the way from America.

The naphtha lamp had burned out sometime during the night. The sun was so bright he hadn't noticed.

**Author's Note:**

> Endless thanks to beta [stripyjamjar](http://archiveofourown.org/users/stripyjamjar/pseuds/stripyjamjar)!


End file.
